


Jeeves And The Inexplicable Fires

by cuddyclothes



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Arson, Crack, Dark!Jeeves, Gen, Snobbish Mens Clubs, oblivious Bertie, ugly ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddyclothes/pseuds/cuddyclothes
Summary: This story is utter and total crack. Bertie is oblivious to the fact that his valet is an arsonist--for Bertie's own good, of course.





	Jeeves And The Inexplicable Fires

As a rule I prefer an quiet, undisturbed existence. I am not a chap to question events. Questioning events, such as how Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps got a dustbin stuck on his head, or why Madeline Bassett refuses to wear orange, is best left to finer minds than mine.

However, when the fires began, I began to Question Events. There seemed to be a crazed arsonist on the loose in London.

By sheer coincidence, the first fire I learned of came shortly after I returned to the ancestral manse—my flat in Mayfair—sporting a spiffy new tie in burnt umber, garnished with embroidered purple musical notes. It was just the thing to wear while tickling the ivories.

However, Jeeves disagreed. Now I had kowtowed to the man—if kowtowed is the word I want—on suits, hats, and shoes. But I drew the line at neck-wear.

“Jeeves, you dislike the tie. Why?”

“It is too ornate, sir.”

“Ornate? Sophisticated!”

“The color does not flatter you, sir.”

“I am wearing this tie and no mistake, my good man!”

The ensuing days became a battle of wills—or rather, a battle of hide and go seek. Jeeves attempted to hide the tie and claimed, with alarming faux innocence, that he did not know where it had gotten to. But he did not know that Bertram Wooster, boy detective, knew to steal into the kitchen while his traitorous valet was out doing whatever valets do when they go to the market or whatever, and carefully ransack the place until the tie was found in a jar of figs. Ignoring the smell, I donned the tie, and with the _insouciance_ for which I am renowned, allowed the blighter to observe me wearing the cravat  as I sat at the piano. To rub it in, I sang “He May Be Your Dog But He’s Wearing My Collar”.

The effect was gratifying. Jeeves did not react that the impartial observer could see, but I knew by the way his mouth turned down at one side that the blighter was cut to the quick.

“Jeeves?”

“I am sorry, sir,” he said in a faraway voice. “I shall be better directly.” After presumably fortifying himself with some cooking sherry, he reentered and mixed me a sprightly cocktail.

“Sir,  if you’ll pardon me asking, where did you purchase that—unique—necktie?”

“Oh, this?” I said nonchalantly, as if I meant to wear a tie smelling of figs. “Gibson’s Male Furnishings, if you must know. The fellows at the Drones rave about it!”

“Raving is the correct word, sir.”

I shot him a suspicious look. “Jeeves, I must put the slender Wooster foot down.  Your hidebound fashion sense has in the past restricted me to ties of quiet maroon, brown, and when you’re feeling particularly wild, blue check. I shall no long chafe under your—chafe under your—what will I not chafe under, Jeeves?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“Be that as it may, from now on, my ties shall be from Gibson’s Male Furnishings!”

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, and spirited off to the kitchen, presumably to return to abusing the cooking sherry. I almost felt sorry for the man.

It was nary a week later, while getting outside an excellent soft-boiled egg with a lashing of kippers, I espied an article in the paper:

**MYSTERIOUS BLAZE IN JERMYN STREET  
**

**Police Suspect Arson**

“Jeeves!”

The good fellow turned from where he was selecting my garb for the day. “Sir?”

“That place—the emporium from which I purchased that fruity tie—“

“Gibson’s Male Furnishings, sir?”

“Yes!  It’s been burned down!”

One eyebrow levered up an eighth of an inch. “That is quite unfortunate, sir.”

“Yes, where shall I purchase my ties from now on? Gibson’s had all of the best stuff!”

“Might I suggest Huntsman, sir? Their ties are considered the finest on Saville Row.”

“Very well, Jeeves, I shall pay my respects to Huntsman ere long.”

There was the barest whisper of a smile on the fellow’s face as he collected my breakfast tray. “Very good, sir.”

 

 

Life continued, with nothing to remark upon except narrowly escaping being married to Georgia Northwell, and being accused of pinching a small Turkish carpet while strolling through Harrods. As was his wont, Jeeves oiled me out of both situations.

The next bump in the otherwise idyllic road came when Jeeves arrived home after his annual shrimping holiday in Dorset.

“Jeeves,” I announced, once the good fellow had finished tidying the sitting room and fixing me a fortifying cocktail, “I shall be a published author again, by Jove!”

“That is good news, sir,” he said affably.

“I thought my literary career would be limited to ‘What The Well Dressed Man Is Wearing’, but I was approached by The Gentleman’s Gazette, a forward-thinking publication that is making quite a stir among the quality. They have requested that young Wooster write an article, ‘Why Not Wear Plimsolls?’”

“The question might be more accurately phrased as ‘Why Wear Plimsolls?’, sir.”

“Tcha, Jeeves, and tcha again! Plimsolls have comfortable rubber soles and canvas tops. The editor, Toppy Pupperward, assures me that plimsolls will be quite the thing this summer!”

“They are already quite the thing, to use your phrase, with working class schoolchildren.” There was a hint of thingummy in his voice.

“There is a hint of thingummy in your voice,” I retorted. “Why should a schoolboy have more comfortable shoes than a gentleman? I have said that your taste in fashion is hidebound, but I see that I was being far too kind! Your taste is—your taste is—barkbound, Jeeves!”

“Very good, sir,” he said, floating from the room, leave a faint trail of displeasure in his wake.

It was unseasonably hot in the sitting room that evening. Stuffy in fact. I cooled myself with a cold gin fizz. While I reclined in a comfortable armchair, one of those inspirations we authors get when our minds are free to gambol about in the gardens of thought with no pesky gardeners afoot, came to me. A paragraph on the joys of brightly colored shoelaces wouldn’t go amiss, would it? Goaded by the fire of creativity, I levered myself out of the armchair and went to my desk. Opening the drawer, my baby blues espied the drawer as distinctly lacking in ‘Why Not Wear Plimsolls?’. Several paper clips and a menu from Claridge’s gazed up at me mockingly.

“Jeeves!”

“Sir?”

“Jeeves, have you by any chance seen that piece I was writing for the Gentleman’s Gazette on ‘Why Not Wear Plimsolls?’”

“No, sir.”

“It seems to have gone missing.” I wiped the brow with a handkerchief. “Isn’t it a little warm to have a fire in the grate? It’s almost summer!”

“I was concerned you might be cold, sir.”

“Well, I can’t find the damned article.”

“That is regrettable, sir.”

“Not to worry, Jeeves. The article is at the printer’s. I shall pop round there tomorrow and add a paragraph about the delights of brightly colored shoelaces.”

A muscle in Jeeves’s cheek twitched. I wondered what was troubling him. No doubt he would tell me if it was important. I journeyed to the Drones in search of more congenial company. Doubtless they would agree with me that plimsolls would be all the rage in the summer months.

When I arrived back at the old homestead in the wee hours, Jeeves was awake. He took my hat and coat. I sniffed the air.

“Jeeves, you don’t smell right. You smell like—you smell like smoke.”

“There was a most unfortunate accident in the kitchen while you were out, sir. I was tending to it when you returned.”

“Oh! Very well, I shall see myself to bed.”

The good fellow started to follow me into the bedroom. I raised a hand.

“No, Jeeves, you are not needed. Tend to the kitchen, and while you’re at it, air your clothes.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Can’t have you smelling like a bonfire.”

“I shall see to it at once, sir. Good night.”

“Good night, Jeeves.”

 

The next morning, the rummiest thing came to light. I was about to turn to the sports page when a headline caught my eye:

**ARSONIST STRIKES AGAIN**

**Ogleby & Sons Printers Is Latest Victim**

“Jeeves!” I expostulated. “This is the most astounding coincidence!”

“Sir?”

“You remember that article, ‘Why Not Wear Plimsolls’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The printers—they had my article—the place was set on fire!”

The man didn’t turn a hair. “That is regrettable, sir.”

“No doubt my bally article went up in smoke, Jeeves.”

“A pity, sir.”

“I could always write it again...but my notes seem to have disappeared as well!”

“I will keep an eye out for them, sir.”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said with a weary sigh. Who wanted to be an author, anyway? Slaving away over a hot desk for hours on end, never calling your soul your own, pestered by editors and publishers and fans. That was no life for Bertram.

“Strange, isn’t it, these fires? I hope nothing happens to the Drones!”

“I doubt it will, sir,” said Jeeves.

 

 

It was some days later that one evening I returned to the flat. Jeeves opened the door, and for the first time I saw Jeeves pale, gasp, and grip the doorknob for support.

The cause of this reaction was the young master, his suit covered with butter, _h_ _omard Thermidor, foie et bacon de veau grillés,_ and _creme renversee._ In short, the suit that Jeeves had picked out, that we had agreed was perfect for the occasion, had been a frost of major proportions, and I resembled nothing so much as a buffet.

“Sir,” he managed, “what _happened_?”

I’ll tell you what happened, because otherwise I’ll leave out pertinent details and you will be scratching your head and wondering, “was a paragraph lost in the editing?”

To begin at the beginning, Oofy Prosser told the Drones about the new Harper’s Club. It was all the rage with the most fashionable young men in our set. The food, the wine, the atmosphere was all rumored to be top-hole. But what caught my interest was that the dress code was unusually strict. No colored shirts, satin neckties, single breasted suits or brogues. Most of the Drones would be pipped at the post.

However, young Bertram had a secret weapon: Jeeves. His impeccable taste would serve the cause and secure me membership in the most exclusive club in Mayfair. I presented Jeeves with the problem and he solved it as smoothly as he does everything else. Little did I know.

“Might I suggest the heather mixture lounge, sir.” This was my valet’s favorite suit. His mouth twitched in approval whenever I wore it. It made the most of the svelte Wooster physique and brought out the color of my baby blues to great effect. Despite the urge to pick out something more forceful, if you take my meaning, I acquiesced.

“You know best, Jeeves.” I donned the fatal suit, a quiet tie, my best Lobb shoes, and sallied forth to meet Oofy and partake of the splendor that was the Harper’s Club.

Meeting the chap on Curzon street, I stared in disbelief. “Good lord! Oofy, what _are_ you wearing?” The chap was outfitted, as close as I could make out, as a bally English version of Al Capone! His suit was _striped!_ And not a subtle stripe, bold grey stripes on a black background. His collar...I can hardly bring myself to write this...was _monogrammed_.

“How do you like it, Bertie?” he crowed. “It’s the latest!”

“You need a violin case to complete your ensemble, my good man.”

“You don’t know the first thing about today’s fashion, Bertie.”

“You don’t know the first thing about not looking like you’re going to a costume ball.”

The first hint that all might not be _douceur et lumière_ at the club came as we passed by the doorman. He gave me the old up-and-down with a hint of disdain, as if I was wearing asparagus in my buttonhole. The atmosphere was indeed infinitely more sophisticated than the Drones. Members stood about, holding cocktails and chatting in reserved fashion. I don’t mind telling you, a thrill ran up my spine at being one of these coves. Smooth, don’t you know, suave, the sort of chap who raises an eyebrow and opines “He’s a nice enough fellow but dreadfully provincial, don’t you know.” My Jeeves-approved attire would see me safely through this initial encounter.

Oofy ankled over to a slim blonde fellow wearing the largest Oxford bag trousers I’ve ever seen. They could be used as yacht sails.

“Chase, may I present my friend Bertie Wooster. Bertie, this is Chase St. John Windsor.”

His eyes skimmed over me in bally unpleasant fashion. Whatever could the matter be? Was it my hair? My shoes? My face? “Charmed, I’m sure,” he drawled. And walked away, striking up a conversation with a fellow who was also dressed gangster-style.

The binge only got worse from there. As Oofy introduced me around, I detected amusement and a shade of contempt. “Oofy, what’s going on?” I whispered.

“You chump, Harper’s is the most fashionable club in London.”

“I read the bally dress code, man.”

“Didn’t you see the section where it said that only the most stylish men could be proposed for membership?”

“I say! Jeeves selected this raiment! He might be a touch too conservative in his taste, but he knows how to dress the young master to his best advantage!”

The gong sounded and we moved to the dining room. As I made my way to our table, chuckles broke out. What was so funny, I thought, looking around for the source of entertainment. The chuckles escalated to laughter.

“Look at that cove!” said a chap wearing a suit in a rather violent shade of puce. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, chum!” With a shiver, I realized that he was addressing me!

“I beg your pardon?” I gargled.

“That suit!” Chase chimed in. “Does it belong to your uncle in Barstow?”

“I say!” I shot a look at Oofy, only to find the scoundrel joining in the mirth! This would not stand. Before I could think of a snappy retort, a lobster hit my shoulder, splattering butter across my lapel. The hooting grew louder, and Bertram found himself the target of the entire meal. I was pelted with veal, bacon, custard and who knows what else. Throwing my arm protectively in front of the dial, I dashed out as another lobster barely missed me.

I don’t remember getting home, only that I was out of breath. Too rattled to look for my keys, I rang the doorbell.

And that brings us to current moment. Jeeves gripping doorknob. Self liberally slather with foodstuffs. It seemed like only a moment that Jeeves had stripped me of the offending suit, drawn me a hot bath, and brought me a whiskey and soda, light on the soda. I brokenly told my man what had happened at the Harper’s Club.

“Oh, sir,” he said sympathetically, combing custard out of my hair. He made various other understanding noises. The circs. made me want to bury my head against his chest and weep like a small boy. But the feudal spirit prevented me from doing more than sit silently in the hot water, watching the foodstuffs float on the surface. Soon Jeeves had me pajam’d and put to bed, where the arms of Morpheus embraced me.

A noise wakened me sometime around 3 a.m. Jeeves never made any noise, so I went to investigate.

Jeeves was standing in the foyer, divesting himself of his coat. Again, he smelled strongly of smoke, and there were ashes in his hair!

“Jeeves,” I squawked, “you have ashes in your hair.”

He turned, looking as impassive as ever. “I regret to say that I went to the Junior Ganymede to return an improving book to one of the other members. There was a kitchen accident. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

I looked at him. “You do seem to attract kitchen accidents, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir. Good night.” He floated off to his lair.

One hoped he’d have the stove repaired before another mishap occurred.

 

“Good lord, Jeeves!”

“Sir?”

I held up the newspaper. “Look! The arsonist has struck again!”

“Indeed, sir?”

“The Harper’s Club! It was burned to the ground.”

“Most unfortunate, sir. Perhaps it was a kitchen accident.”

“No, Jeeves, it says here, a masked man was seen throwing a pair of flaming trousers tied to a brick through a window!”

“Goodness, sir.”

“That’s not all, Jeeves! A member, Chase St. John Windsor, was found in a nearby park unconscious and trouserless!” I put down the paper. “Rum, Jeeves. Very rum. This raises questions about the event. Why would someone want to burn down the Harper’s Club?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.” I thought there was something is in his manner—but no, it was probably that the eggs and b. weren’t up to scratch or some such.

“Jeeves, if you’re worried about this breakfast, it is up to your usual high standard.”

“Thank you, sir.” He inclined the noble head.

“The police will catch the blighter!”

Jeeves gave a small cough. “It might be difficult, sir.”

“Where do you think the arsonist will strike again?”

“Somehow I don’t think he will, sir. He will be content to rest on his laurels.”

It struck me as a strange turn of phrase. “Jeeves, that strikes me as a strange turn of phrase.”

He produced a telegram. “This telegram came for you, sir.”

I skimmed the e. over it. “Jeeves, we are being summoned to Totleigh Towers. Doubtless Aunt Agatha has another beazel to throw at my head.”

“If you will excuse me, sir.”

“Jeeves?”

“We are out of matches.”

“Oh, well then, off with you.”

“Very good, sir.”


End file.
